Of Space and Time
by crypticnotions
Summary: AU: Michonne Thomas and Rick Grimes are elite intergalactic warriors in charge of different Squads. After an assassination attempt on Federation President Deanna Monroe, they are both called to the Earth town of Alexandria to keep her safe. Can they work together to prevent the crash of the Federation?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: AU, but nothing is really mine.

Summary: Michonne Thomas and Rick Grimes are elite intergalactic warriors in charge of different Squads. After an assassination attempt on Federation President Deanna Monroe, they are both called to the Earth town of Alexandria to keep her safe. Can they work together to prevent the crash of the Federation?

* * *

Year 2063:

AWV: 2 Years…and counting

The beep sounded and the air swiftly changed from cool to warm to hot, causing Michonne to gasp in a deep breath. She scowled and hit the button to her left to unleash the stasis pod. Her legs trembled as she stepped out of the clear cocoon. She would never get used to it no matter how many restless times she'd turned to it to aid her in catching a few hours of sleep.

She blinked again and looked at the glowing clock hitched over her regular bed. It was three hours too early. She crossed her room and hit the call button.

"What's up?" It wasn't like Tara to buzz her early. They were on their way home for a sabbatical after completing a mission on Mars. Michonne wasn't exactly fond of Mars. She never liked the oxygen-gravity suits they had to wear planet side, even though they weren't bulky like they used to be. She also couldn't use her favorite weapon there either.

"Sorry. We got a special message. Was ranked a number one."

Michonne sighed. Number one messages were the highest priority and non-negotiable. She couldn't decline it.

"Want me to patch it in?" Tara continued.

Michonne grabbed a hair tie from her nightstand and put her long locs into a high ponytail. They were a lot longer since she'd last been to Earth, and far longer since the Walker Virus had infected the planet and left it a shell of itself in terms of resources and population.

"Yeah," she replied.

She yanked the wooden chair in the corner of the cramped room across the floor and plopped down on it as her screen fired up. Their ship was an older model, more rickety metal and with screens instead of holograms like the few, newer modeled ships. Morgan Jones' face shimmered in television snow then stabilized as he spoke.

"Sorry, Flame Leader Thomas, I wouldn't contact you unless it were an emergency. With you being off-planet, you may not have heard, but there was an assassination attempt on President Monroe's life last night. Unfortunately, her son, Aiden, and husband, Reg, were killed in the attack. She's safe," he paused and she could see him adjusting the camera, "for now. We've called your squad and another to make sure she and her remaining son, Spencer, stay that way. The Federation doesn't need any more leaders dying. It's fragile as is. I've sent information to you directly and had your pilot re-route your course to take you straight to Alexandria. Sorry to interrupt your vacation year before it started. If anyone needs a break it's you. Hopefully you can take one once this mission is over, with triple the credits-on us, of course. Great job on Mars by the way."

Michonne slumped over when the feed ended. She didn't know if she had the energy for another mission so soon, but she knew of the tenuous hold the Federation had right now and it needed to remain in tact. She also knew Morgan was undercutting just how bad the attempt must have been. He was on some "all life is precious" kick, and while she respected his personal philosophy, especially after the loss of his wife and child, a feeling she could relate to, she didn't respect that he sometimes wanted less punishment than some people deserved. Thankfully, he left all the bloody work to the Squads.

She touched the console several times and focused on the report that flashed before her. She had less than three hours to digest this.

* * *

Two hours into reading the Monroe Report, Michonne stood from her desk, stretched her limbs, opened her bunk doors and ascended the clanking steps to the kitchen.

Sasha, her second in command, was already there. A plate of grapes and a hunk of waxy, yellow cheese sat in front of her. Michonne was glad they'd replaced their food printer before this mission. The last one only churned out inedible brown sludge so they'd had to rely on MREs once their fresh stock had run out. Her stomach churned at the thought.

Sasha gestured to the plate with her full coffee cup. "Want some?" she said between bites.

"No," Michonne remarked. She took the seat across from Sasha. "You okay with this?"

They both knew what she meant. Sasha swallowed and stilled. She looked down at the table nailed to the floor that rested between them. "I'll be okay. We have to keep moving. We can't stop. He wouldn't want us to stop."

Michonne nodded. Sasha was the best sharpshooter in the galaxy for all Michonne knew. She was also the sister of the last Federation president killed, Tyreese. After he'd been assassinated, Sasha had spiraled into a deep depression. Rosita and Michonne had found Sasha roaming outside of the safety zones designed to keep those alive from the people who had succumbed to the Walker Virus. It had been dangerous, but what scared Michonne the most was the empty light behind Sasha's eyes for months until Michonne had insisted that if Sasha continued to carry a gun, she'd have to talk it out with Gabriel, one of the Federation's remote counselors. Sasha wasn't completely healed, but she wasn't holding the key to death's door as closely as she had been before.

"I can't pull the plug on this, but I can scale back your interaction, if you are uncomfortable."

"It's okay. I'm good," Sasha said more firmly.

Michonne nodded once more. That would be all they talked about of this. She reached over to grab a small bunch of Sasha's grapes then headed for the printer.

"Hey!" Sasha exclaimed, but there wasn't any anger lacing her voice.

Michonne grabbed a glass of sparkling water from the machine and smirked while lifting the fruit to her lips. It wasn't the delicious chocolate bar she would have preferred, but it would do nicely.

* * *

"You know anything about this other Squad?" Rosita was on the bridge with Michonne and Tara as they neared Earth's orbit. She stood next to the wall of their landing pads. She climbed the steps to the device and started hooking herself into the harness.

"Nope," Michonne answered. "Just know it goes by the name Colt and the leader's initials are R.G."

"Hmm," Rosita answered. She leaned back against the wall.

They watched Tara reach over the ship's navigation panel and hit the intercom to Sasha's room. "Strap in. We're close to descending."

Michonne and Rosita hit the adjusting buttons on their gear and felt it tighten them into place. Tara was already prepared for the landing.

Michonne bit down on the mouth guard she'd put in. She'd never been able to make a smooth landing without it and she preferred not to start this mission with a bloody mouth and stitches. The ship fluttered then violently shook as it descended. Quickly, the Earth's gravity sucked them downward. This was usually when any atmospheric accidents happened, when ships and people would get swallowed and disintegrate into nothingness. In her periphery, Michonne could vaguely make out Rosita's lips reciting a prayer. Michonne's stomach jumped into her throat. She exhaled and waited for it to pass.

When the Walker Virus descended on the Earth, it had wiped out a good portion of their newest technologies, had taken some of their most brilliant scientists and had left them starting near scratch. Capitalism had taken the rest. Even some elite government squads were using space technology from the 20th century these days.

"We're almost there," she heard in the speaker of her landing pad.

She closed her eyes and pictured a little boy with sweet curls and an infectious laugh. She pushed away the sob that threatened to overtake her and let the journey jolt her down to the surface.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Michonne stretched her legs; the tingling in them gave way to solid footing.

She put on her vest and grabbed her weapon.

Rosita was loading up on her knives, her hands fast to work with sheathing them and placing on her customary cap.

Sasha emerged from the bowels of the ship just as Tara's console began to beep. The alarm blared and they all froze and eyed each other.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Michonne inquired. Her muscle memory caused her to place a gloved hand over her shoulder and onto the handle of her blade. Her locs were free again and they swung over her shoulder when she turned.

"I don't know, " Tara stuttered. She leaned over the screen and traced the last few moments of their travel. They'd docked just fine. Docking stations weren't like they used to be. They weren't run by humans anymore. The risk of losing someone greeting a crew who could all be infected with the Walker Virus was too great. Some ships had automatic override codes that would dock safely enough without human intervention. However, most didn't have any built in air pressurizers, which allowed infected crew to neutralize themselves in a safe manner if it were too late. Some ships could land without a single outward sign there were uninfected people aboard.

But the computer attached to the base had let them in.

"It's the proximity radar." Tara's voice wavered. Proximity radar alerts could mean only certain things: the infected, enemies, or, if they were lucky, friends, but since they weren't expecting anyone…

Michonne silenced her fears, stood still and calmly looked to her crew.

"Send out a signal," Michonne motioned to Tara. Tara nodded and buzzed through the computer.

It wouldn't send help for them in time, but it might allow someone to pick up their credits and life records if this were a group of the infected waiting to ingest them.

"You ready?"

Sasha stood with her gun mounted and aimed. Rosita stood tall with a knife in each hand. Tara had a handgun and a knife. Michonne eased her weapon from her back and watched the electric blade whiz immediately to life. It had kept her alive and it would keep her alive again.

The door to the hatch shuddered open and Michonne planted her feet, the muscles of her arms flexed to strike. Right as she was poised to swing, she came face to face with a man with stunning blue eyes aiming an old colt python at her face.

"Who the fuck are you?" A tall, burly redheaded man thundered.

Michonne and the blue-eyed man kept their eyes hard on each other. There were others in his crew, but she knew that whatever group they had met with, he was their leader. His assured stance and the way his head cocked slightly to the side told her he was in charge.

"Who the fuck are you?" Sasha asked back. They would not back down.

The tension in Michonne's arms increased when she realized they just might have to kill these men. This was a mission she had not signed up for.

* * *

A/N: Hopefully, the oddness of this works for you. Lol. I am working on the other story. I was stuck for awhile, but I think I'm in a good head space to try to tackle it again.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all for reading. It is appreciated.

* * *

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! Hold your fire!"

Rick could hear Maggie trudge through the tall grass surrounding the docking station where they stood. Still, he didn't turn his head from the stranger with the captivating deep brown eyes nor did he lower his Colt. He saw the muscles in her arms flex as she held her electric blade. He'd never seen a weapon quite like hers before.

Maggie reached their perimeter. "Morgan is on line," she struggled to say between pants.

She shoved their communicating tablet in his direction and Morgan appeared on the screen in Rick's periphery.

"Flame and Colt leaders, stand down. Stand down. You are allies."

Rick gritted his teeth before gazing at his friend. Ever since Morgan had taken a vow of nonviolence and left the crew to work for the Federation, Rick often found himself at odds with the man. However, he never forgot just how Morgan had saved his life when Rick was most vulnerable and that had left Rick indebted to him by Rick's own moral code. That didn't mean he didn't sometimes want to grab Morgan by the collar as he sat behind some cushy desk negotiating while Rick did the dirty work.

"Mighta been nice to let us know the crickets were gonna be screaming down on us before we came out here and almost started a fucking civil war," Abraham said. Rick watched him lower his weapon before giving the woman who had responded back to him in his own crass manner a once over.

The woman in front of him finally lowered her weapon. She deftly did something, which allowed the electricity to evaporate with a whizzing sound at the same time the entire sword disappeared from view.

He blinked a few seconds before shifting his Colt backwards in his hand, the barrel pointing upwards before he placed the safety back on. He offered her his hand to shake. She lifted one brow and ignored it, before pushing forward from the docking ramp of her ship. Her crew followed her onto the dry, red Virginia dirt.

It hadn't rained in weeks and the ground was starting to crack with its thirst.

Rick sniffed. This must be M.T., the leader of the Flames, but he was unimpressed by her level of friendliness and more than put off by her demeanor. Though he couldn't be too surprised. He had greeted her landing with a welcome party of guns rammed right into her face. Docking stations were dangerous, particularly for those onboard. Robbers sometimes risked the unknown for a shot at taking anything from unsuspecting crews-from women to entire ships. He scratched his nose knowing he'd set her and her team on edge in all the wrong ways.

Maggie increased the tablet volume and they listened to Morgan drone on a few more seconds about teamwork and capability and the Federation. Rick knew all that was important, but with one glance over at M.T., he knew she had tuned Morgan out to study his people as his folks were doing the same to hers.

Rick felt a rush through his body. This was going to be a long mission.

* * *

"Didn't mean to startle your folks back there. We'd heard you weren't coming in until tomorrow. Can't be too careful since this assassination attempt." He stood in the doorway of the foyer of one of the houses in Alexandria.

Quaint was the only word that had come to his mind when he'd seen this town. He'd been in space so long that he'd forgotten that Earth had carved out these spaces of artificial dreams back in the early twenty first century. Up until the Walker Virus, communities like these thrived for the people who aimed to have the American dream. At the thought, his hand clenched. Lori. Lori hadn't made it, but he knew President Deanna Monroe's quaint little town was exactly what she would have liked.

But looking at the world now, quaint could mean death trap and Rick wasn't exactly sure why the president of the Federation had decided to take her chances here. It had cost her. Her husband and son had been killed on the way back into town, but she insisted on staying.

He wondered how Commander M.T. had fared with President Monroe's scrutiny. He had found the woman a bit uneasy. He was there for a mission and he didn't need all the little ins and outs she found necessary to exist.

"I understand. Can't take too many risks out here," she answered.

He watched her place one of the dishes she'd just rinsed into the dishwasher of the house. This was another thing he found unsettling. He hadn't eaten on regular dishes in months. His ship came with biodegradable packages. They ate the food and Glenn and Daryl worked at putting the remains into their miniature garden onboard.

It was just as odd having a big refrigerator and marble counters and wooden cabinets. He even spotted a giant sofa in the living room.

She used a damp hand to brush some of the locs that had fallen from her headband out of her face and behind her ear. He sized her up. Without her space gear, she was lean, much tinier than he expected. He could see the defined muscles of her arms in her suit, but now he couldn't help but notice her ass in the, in his opinion, too tight black jeans she wore. He kept his eyes on the side of her face because of it. She didn't seem one for many words.

"Is there something I can get for you?" Her voice was melodic, but he detected a touch of frustration. He was just staring at her.

He cleared his throat. "Didn't want our rocky start to make this relationship awkward. These assassins are not going to stop coming after President Deanna and her son."

"We'll do the work. We'll get the job done."

Efficient and decisive. He imagined she was good at her job. She was the leader of another elite squad. He'd never heard of her and he knew that put her on his level. For these kinds of jobs, they tapped the best of the best and also those that had basically disappeared from the world. There was no official record of him.

"Also, I'm Rick Grimes, Colt Commander. Thought we could do the whole name exchange thing." He knew his Southern twang had accentuated the word 'thing'. He'd had a funky grasp on the word ever since he was a child. Some people found it charming and some people found it annoying.

She lifted the door to close the dishwasher and looked at him. "Michonne Thomas. Flame Commander. I take my job seriously. I read the briefing." She narrowed her eyes at him and gazed at his face. He felt himself attempting not to squirm. "We'll get the job done," she repeated after finally shifting her gaze.

He nodded, his boots clicked on the tile of the floor. Another one of his quirks was insisting on wearing cowboy boots when he didn't have to be suited for space travel.

"I'm sorry Morgan insisted on us living together. I know how important it is to have crew close by." He wasn't sure why Morgan had thought splitting the crews up in the various houses of Alexandria would be a good idea, but he'd found himself scheduled to live in the same house as Michonne. Morgan's orders were top of the line and could not be disputed. He wondered how Daryl was feeling about being cramped up with several of the Flame squadron and Carol. Carol was an old friend and unique assassin, a chameleon, but she'd gotten back from a mission recently and whatever she'd had to do, she was not in a good space. Rick kept clear of her some days so she could find her center. He knew working with people when they were tilting out of control was dangerous and not always for him. He valued Carol and her skills. She'd saved him a time or two.

"It's fine. Gives us more coverage. Might not have made as much sense to put the two leaders together, but all of my crew are equally as capable as I am. Anybody trying to infiltrate will die. It doesn't matter whose hands it's by."

He smiled at that. "So, I take it you don't share Morgan's stance on nonviolence."

She snorted and took a seat in one of the wooden kitchen chairs. Her own booted feet knocked the leg of the chair, causing a thump. "Morgan doesn't even share his stance on nonviolence. Why else are we out here?"

He saw the set in her shoulder relax a little when she leaned on the table. He took a seat across from her.

"Man won't kill."

"No, he'll just send his elite cabal of killers to do the job. In the old world, that's at least a charge of hiring a hit man."

He couldn't help but laugh. She was right. This was wild. She joined him, her laughter coming from her belly and he felt himself warm at the notion.

"So many things have changed." He sighed.

"They have," she replied. He could see the melancholy rest on the weight of her and he wished she was the lighthearted person she was just moments before. But things had changed and most of those changes in this world were not for the better. He'd still have Lori if they were. He'd still have Shane. He couldn't go down this path or he'd be warming more than his feelings later with the whiskey in one of the cabinets.

A loud noise crashed through their thoughts and both of them jerked upwards. Rick had his hand on his Colt before turning to the sound.

"Dad! Dad!"

He let out a breath. Carl, his teenaged son, and Judith, his three year old daughter rushed around the corner.

"It's okay. It's just my childr…" His voice trailed when he looked back at Michonne.

The calm demeanor she had displayed up until this point was gone. Her face was a mask of pain and anguish. He watched her hands shake as she grasped her sword. She looked at his children as if she'd seen a ghost.


End file.
